The archbishop continues giving his guests a grand tour of the palace and Van Rijn seizes every opportunity to be photographed next to him. Tassos is all dressed up in his formal suit.
“Why did you have to bring him here?” I ask in Greek.
He squeezes his eyebrows in defiance.
“Why must you take all the credit?” he asks. “You think you can handle him better than me? I’ve been a policeman my whole life.”
“He is going to compromise us,” I say. “I’m not—” He puts his hand up signaling for me to stop.
“What did the guy ever do to you but help you make a name for yourself in the papers? Give credit already.”
“Tassos, you’re making a mistake.”
“Enjoy your glory,” he says and walks to the opposite side of the room. So, I try to reason with Stella.
“Stella, I feel anxious about the way the police are managing Van Rijn. The German police and I were able to discuss strategy, we communicated about every aspect of the case, and manage to work flawlessly together.”
Her pale complexion is suddenly flushed with tones of red as the blood rushes to her face.
“How dare you criticize the police of Cyprus!”
I’ve never seen her so angry. “I’m illustrating the problem,” I say.
“I control the police! When you criticize the police, you criticize the work of the attorney general and myself.”
“The way the police are working is slowing down our ability to get the artifacts out of Germany,” I say.
“Do you know what the problem is? You’re the problem. The next time you want to have a conversation, come and speak to me without your husband. Let’s see how tall you are then,” and she walks away. I follow her into the hallway.
“Stella, please. I didn’t mean to offend you. We are supposed to be working as a team.”
“There is only one team, and that is you and the archbishop of Cyprus, Chrysostomos I.”
Stella walks down the stairs. The assistant to the archbishop, Mr. Demetrakis, stops her. “Madame, what is the problem, please?”
“She’s my problem,” Stella says, pointing at me.
Bishop Vasilios appears, looking for me.
“The archbishop is about to speak.”
He sees Stella upset and he ushers us into his office.
“Stella, I came to you for help. I would love to sit down with you and the police so we can all work together,” I say.
“Okay,” says Stella. “Why don’t you come to the police station at fifteen hundred hours this afternoon and we can have that talk.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, and we embrace each other. The moment makes me believe that we now have an opportunity to overcome our differences and work in unison to bring the artifacts back from Munich. There is a sudden generous burst of applause, but I miss what the audience is responding to.
Bishop Vasilios approaches me, beaming.
“You must be in shock,” he says.
I shake my head no, embarrassed that my thoughts are so preoccupied.
“The archbishop just nominated you to receive the Order of Saint Barnabas medal,” says Bishop Vasilios.
“The Order of Saint Barnabas, I don’t know what that is,” I say.
The Gold Medal of Saint Barnabas the Apostle is the highest distinction bestowed by archbishop Chrysostomos I and the Church of Cyprus. Knowing what Saint Barnabas means to the people of the Cyprus, this is a medal of great importance.
Bishop Vasilios explains, “It’s the highest honor given to a civilian. You will be the first woman recipient, so please wipe that confused look off your face and smile!”
“Stella wants me to come down to the police station,” I say, still in shock.
Bishop Vasilios’s facial expression changes to concern.
“You must not go there alone, Tasoula. Regardless of what she says.”
The British colonial style exterior of police headquarters in Nicosia is in direct contrast to the sparse and modest décor inside. Michael and me are led to Tassos Panayiotou’s office where the smell of stale smoke is mixed with the scent of perfume, which challenges my asthma. Tassos sits behind a large old steel desk that seems to have a history of its own, with Stella Ioannides alongside him smoking from her long cigarette holder.
“So,” says Stella, “you have given everything you have to the police of Cyprus?”
“Of course. From the first day I began working with Michel Van Rijn, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the attorney general’s office have received copies of my notes concerning any meetings, information, and requests he made.” I say. My body struggles to keep up with how fast my heart is pumping blood.
Stella says, “Bring him in.”
Michel Van Rijn enters the room and takes a seat next to me, opposite Stella and Tassos.
“All these years, I have been feeding you information that I assumed you were communicating to your government. Where are all the files and the evidence I gave you about Aydin Dikmen?” he says.
“What evidence?” I ask.
Van Rijn says, “The evidence about Dikmen’s smuggling. You keep it all for yourself and you withhold it from the police.”
The police are silent.
I feel my entire body go into shock.
“What the hell is going on here?” I ask, expecting an explanation from Tassos and Stella. “I don’t know what you’re referring to!”
“You’re lying,” he says, pointing his finger at me.
Those words provoke my husband to lift his six-foot-four frame out of the chair. “Enough is enough!” Turning to the police, he says, “Get him out of here immediately.”
Van Rijn wears a devilish smile when he says, “Have a nice day, golden couple,” as he exits the room.
Michael unleashes his anger. “Forget that she is an honorary consul. Forget that she is the representative of the Church. Forget that she has dedicated her life serving your country at personal danger. She is a Cypriot, for God’s sake! Her word is equal to Michel Van Rijn’s? You allow him to insult her dignity and you sit there and do nothing to protect her!”
“We wanted to pit them against each other to see who is telling the truth,” says Tassos.
“Shame on you! We’re out of here,” he says, as he extends his hand to me.
The next day, the sound of the hotel room service cart being wheeled into the suite of my hotel room wakes me from a fitful sleep. My thoughts are trapped in the noxious details of yesterday. I wonder if it is even possible for us to get on the same page to work together for the greater good of seeing to the return of the artifacts.
Reaching for the newspaper, I see an article about me being nominated for the Order of Saint Barnabas medal. My parents will be so proud, especially my mother, who lives and breathes by the Orthodox Church.
An envelope is slipped under the hotel door, and I debate whether or not to eat before opening it. Michael beats me to the punch retrieves the envelope and places it on top of a nearby table.
He pours himself some tea and selects a croissant while I serve him scrambled eggs and bacon. Seeing the paper opened to the article about me, he says, trying to lift my spirits,1 “Your nomination for the Saint Barnabas Medal is big news in Cyprus. Don’t let the attitudes of a few ruin this moment for you.”
Opening the envelope, I see an eight-page manifesto from Van Rijn, laying out his case of lies against me, which has been distributed to the attorney general and the minister of foreign affairs. After reading the first few pages, I faint.2
My circumstances have all the makings of a Greek tragedy, which brings me to recall the myth of Psyche, known as the deity of the soul. Due to the jealousy and manipulation of others, she loses what she treasures most. When she is sent to the underworld by Aphrodite on a quest to overcome impossible obstacles, Psyche proves in the end that her passion and commitment to the virtue of love is greater than her enemies’ fear and desire to destroy her.
I have not come t
his far to give up now. From where I don’t know, but I must find the courage to rise.
Twenty-Eight
IT’S CRIMINAL
1998
Refusing to be used like a Monopoly game piece by Van Rijn, I cut off communication with him. My instinct is that he will not be able to stay away for long, and right now cutting him off is my only defense.
After reading my Munich statement, the attorney general requests that I come to London to discuss it. “I wasn’t aware of how much you did,” he says in our telephone conversation, which gives me hope that I might be able to improve the relationship with his office.
Meanwhile, I put my energy into locating the real Andreas mosaic, which remains a mystery. Peter Kitschler has the key to the safe that Van Rijn gave me, but that’s all we have. Over the years, Van Rijn has told me different stories about who is in possession of the Andreas mosaic, from giving it to his Montenegrin bodyguards in exchange for payment to it being ostensibly owned by a German doctor who lived somewhere outside of Munich. I search through my earlier notes to see if there is anything that I might have missed and there, in a file for dealer Robert Roozemond, I find a card for a doctor in Munich named Schmidt. His name was given to Mr. Kyprianou and me when we first met with Roozemond at his gallery back in 1988. Roozemond had described Schmidt as a man who collects Byzantine art. Could Schmidt be in possession of Andreas?
After making further inquiries with a Dutch journalist, he provides me with a recent photograph of the Andreas mosaic in Van Rijn’s possession. I forward a copy to Papageorgiou, who confirms it to be a fake Andreas, and send it on to Peter Kitschler, the Cypriot government, and the police. The fake Andreas I believe is in Van Rijn’s hands. It may or may not lead to the real Andreas mosaic, but once Peter Kitschler has the name of the doctor he begins a search, as we will need the fake Andreas to prosecute Dikmen for selling a “forgery.”1, 2 The Bavarian police continue to ask for my statement.3, 4
It’s a cold, gray January day as I make my way to meet the attorney general who is visiting the Cyprus High Commission office on Princess Street, near the Oxford Circus tube station in London.5 Stella leads me into a conference. Attorney General Markides joins us moments later. After a cordial greeting, he gets down to business.
“David Hole, and Polak, can find no reason why my statement should be withheld. As a Dutch citizen I am free to release it, and the Germans are pressuring me to send it. I’m feeling a bit pulled in all directions.”6 I say respectfully.
“The archbishop and I took a major risk in executing the Munich sting,” he says.
“Sir, with all due respect, the archbishop is the one who put everything on the line by placing his trust in me.”
The attorney general looks at me, and then his watch. “Stella, would you finish with Mrs. Hadjitofi, please.” Barely looking at me, he says, “Good day,” and exits.
Stella and I are now left to battle over the wording of my statement.
“Here,” she says circling a sentence. “Change this to say, ‘Under the instruction of the police.’” she says. There are circles throughout the statement, so I read it again carefully.
Not believing my own eyes, I ask for clarification. “Stella, you have circled every place where I say that I report to the Church and the archbishop.”
“Yes, that’s exactly right. You are an agent of the police.”
They want me to change the wording of my statement to accommodate their need to expand their role in the operation.
While I’m in London I learn that the attorney general’s office has requested that Peter Kitschler postpone raiding Dr. Schmidt’s residence in Munich for a few weeks. The delay is now timed so that the raid will take place coincidentally between the first and second round of presidential elections in Cyprus.
“They are trying to skew my statement to read that I was an instrument of the police and not the other way around,” I say to the archbishop, whom I call before boarding a plane back to Holland. The archbishop responds in turn by sending the government and police copies of my power of attorney to remind them that, like it or not, I speak for the Church and they will have to work with me.7
The Munich case comes to a standstill. The attorney general’s office still has not released my statement. The Cypriots are intimating that if I do release my statement to the Germans and anything goes wrong with the criminal case, it will be my responsibility. Mr. Papageorgiou’s list of which stolen artifacts belong to Cyprus also remains on hold in his office. The more time that passes, the less likely it will be that Aydin Dikmen will want to strike a deal with the German police, which means that the return of the artifacts could be exposed to counterclaims. When Attorney General Markides places a gag order on me with the press I find it confusing. The Bavarian police told me exposure in the news is what will keep me safe.
The opposing direction causes great distress.
I revise my statement based on suggestions from our lawyer in Germany and call the attorney general’s office for his comments. Stella responds with a fax that has a slightly threatening tone: “Do not send your statement to the Germans without our approval; if you do the case will be your responsibility.”8 I write to Stella saying please tell me what detail you want so I can sign it and send it off. No response.9
March is upon us when Peter Kitschler phones me from Munich in a state of panic.
“I don’t understand what they are waiting for, but I’m going to contact my counterpart of the art crime unit of the Netherlands Interpol to inquire if I can get your statement as a Dutch citizen. Do you have a Dutch passport?” he asks.
“Peter, I would be considered a traitor if I release my statement to the Dutch without Cyprus’s approval. I will forward the information on to the Cypriots and ask them to contact him.”10 The irony of this situation is cutting. If I give my statement to the Bavarian police, it will feel as if I committed an act of betrayal against the Cypriot government, and yet if I don’t cooperate with the Bavarian police, they will fail to prosecute Dikmen, and the return of the artifacts will become caught up in a civil trial.
The Munich case is headed for disastrous results. Something has got to give, so I let go.
I write to Bishop Vasilios, telling him that I am withdrawing my participation in the Munich case. I’m not willing to falsify my statement for anyone. Minor edits are fine, but I will not compromise my truth. If the government wants me to testify, I will. If they choose not to use me as a witness, my involvement with the case will now cease.11 At this point, unless a higher power intercedes, the future of the Munich case lies in the path of failure.
An urgent call to my home from the archbishop signals trouble.
“Tasoula, every day the police and attorney general’s office come with a new complaint. They say that you are interfering in the case and you are withholding evidence. They are going to incriminate and discredit you. I want you to come to Cyprus with David Hole. And please, no meetings with these people unless Bishop Vasilios is present with you.” I go to Cyprus with David Hole three days later.
At the palace with David Hole, the archbishop, and Bishop Vasilios, we receive confirmation that the Cypriot government does not have sufficient evidence for an extradition. The Cypriots could not link Dikmen to the actual stealing of the artifacts and now the Germans are failing to prosecute Dikmen in Germany because the Cypriots refuse to release our statements.
“Don’t worry, I will stand by you,” says the archbishop, which brings me to tears. He calls his secretary Demetrakis into his office and says, “When Tasoula is in Cyprus, I want you to stand by her as you would me. Be the first person she sees when she arrives at the airport and the last one before she boards her return flight.”
Demetrakis is experienced around these types of situations. He was the man that former President Makarios III depended on while he was in exile. Demetrakis, a man of few words but sturdy character, bows his head in agreement. The archbishop turns to Bishop Vasilios. “Van Rijn fears Ta
soula. If we place Polak in charge of handling her statement and the dispute with Van Rijn, it will give Tasoula a layer of protection from those who target her.”
“Your Beatitude,” I say, “I feel terrible about what is happening here.”
“Take a step back. Allow me to sort this out. It will be all right,” he tells me. “The humble soul is blessed. Go in grace, my child.”
A perfect sun sets over the Saint Raphael Marina in Limassol, where I am sitting with my parents having dinner at the Sailor’s Restaurant in Cyprus. I hope the serenity of the sea and the nurturing warmth of my parents help to create a perfect ending to an otherwise horrific day.
“You don’t look well, Tasoula. Is everything okay? You are much too thin,” my mother says as she passes me a basket of bread. Since Munich I have lost at least twenty pounds, and stress is preventing me from gaining any of it back.
“I’m fine, Mom. It’s the dress that makes me look skinny. I’m going to buy five more of them,” I say, laughing, trying to take her keen eyes off of me. “How are Miriam, Yiola, and Andreas doing?” I ask, placing the focus on my siblings.
Dishes of freshly grilled tuna, salmon, and shrimp are placed before us, as we dine in a nirvana-like setting. Watching the yachts sailing into the harbor to moor for the night, I’m able to forget my troubles for a few hours as we enjoy each other’s company.
We leave the restaurant and walk to the nearby St. Raphael Hotel, a five-star resort, where we have a nightcap before calling it an evening. Dad pulls me aside. “I don’t want to see you in this state when you come next. Get hold of yourself and whatever it is that is causing you to lose weight like this.” This moment reminds me of when I left Cyprus at seventeen years of age to make a new future for myself. I was scared out of my wits, and he knew fear would cloud my judgment. His no-nonsense approach laid the law down. “Don’t shame the family. I’m counting on you,” he said.
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